All it was was a simple enquiry, nothing special: ‘How can I compress a
large data file into one without having to split them, using less
gigabytes?' It was a PC maintenance forum, fairly popular, a place to
go for information, enquiries, and help, and as with most subjects,
someone out there in cyberspace knew far more about it than was
feasibly possible. If you thought you were fairly ‘geeky' about a
certain interest, somebody out there would knock you into a cocked hat.
You would easily be ‘out-geeked' on the subject.
He obtained a few responses, some helpful, some fairly useful, but
nothing he was particularly looking for. Yet, all corners and spaces of
the internet seem to have been infected with a particular sort of
virus. The ‘troll', an individual who thinks it's funny to insult and
poke fun at someone they've never met, never seen.
The message he'd received was from ‘Dragonrider': ‘I bet your mother
hates you'.
As with a lot of troll messages, it was uncalled for, done simply for
the amusement of the perpetrator. Probably a spotty, geeky teen on
Daddy's computer. Illiterate and showing zero intellect, these people
are out there, amongst the ‘normal', probably appearing normal
themselves, but with a revolting mind between their ears. Loving the
anonymity the internet provides, a chance for their true selves to
infect all corners of cyberspace.
Terence Pascal was unemployed, but occasionally worked for somebody who
was self-employed laying driveways and patios. It was cash in hand, so
he had to be wary of people who would betray him to the jobcentre.
He was 47 and lived alone in a luxury apartment. He was a rather lithe
figure, mostly wearing a white cap even indoors, and not trusting many
people at all. To make a true friend out of him would take a long and
strenuous road.
One person who most certainly would not be making a friend of him was
his troll. His troll who found his way onto another forum Terence
frequented: ‘Archery in the North-East'. Even though he'd never played,
he was sufficiently interested to keep asking about it. Another member
had recently asked: ‘Are you ever going to get round to having a go, or
is it just a phase?'
Yet, the last message he'd received there was: ‘ Like I said, I bet your
mother hates you, you spineless mouse'.
He thought he could take such abuse, thought he could let it wash over
him, but he found himself thinking about it more and more. ‘What's the
matter? Had a tiff with your boyfriend you fucking nonce?' was the next
message.
The next: ‘I know you're there, I know you're reading these. What's
wrong? crying are you? dirty faggot'.
This one almost did make him cry, tears did eek out onto his pillow.
For the next few days, he avoided the internet, but he found himself
tempted back. However, when he checked his email, who should have
messaged him, but ‘Dragonrider'. ‘Avoiding me are you like a little
gayboy? Why don't you face me like a man? Oh sorry, you're not are you?
you fucking geek. By the way, I know where you live'.
Terence didn't want to reply incase he incensed him even further, but it
didn't seem to matter. He wondered if he wasn't the only victim. Not
that it made any difference if he was. He felt rather helpless. Maybe
the troll was some psychopathic freak, or a teen ‘having a laugh'. That
was the thing about trolls. They are faceless. They could be anybody,
as that is who they are.
A full day went by with nothing from his cyberbully, until he checked
his email again. ‘Thought I'd gone, didn't you? No chance fucko, not
until I put either a bullet or a pick-axe in your fucking head'.
Terence found himself in a state of constant apprehension. When he got
called by his employer for a days work, he found himself thinking of
nothing but his troll, wondering if passers-by were looking at him in a
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